


The Kiss of the Sun For Pardon

by Synesthetic



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:06:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synesthetic/pseuds/Synesthetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vern, in a counseling session with Beecher says that he believes that Beecher is innocent of arranging Andy’s death.  His true thoughts are another matter entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kiss of the Sun For Pardon

It was easy to reach out, easy to extend my hand. His grasp was firm, warm, his fingers just the slightest bit damp. 

He always was a terrible liar.

I stare into Beecher’s watery blue and eyes and I try to remember: have I ever touched him when I wasn’t fucking him or about to fuck him or about to fuck him over? I suddenly realize that this handshake is no different. Only the thought of Hank laying faceless in a metal drawer somewhere in Massachusetts keeps me from smiling. 

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Sister Pete sitting frozen, her steepled fingers pointing towards her face. She’s wearing an uncomfortable expression somewhere between shock and hope. Miserable spic cunt. Her mouth is half-open and I can see her crooked little teeth pressing against her bottom lip. I keep my face smooth as I imagine yanking hard on Beecher’s hand, pulling him off balance, down to the floor. Two steps to reach Peter-Marie, one hard punch to put her down. The blinds in the windows are already down and if I was quiet, well, if I was quiet enough I could probably have Beecher to myself for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Plenty of time. 

I shake his hand and remember what it felt like to have his body tucked between my thighs, shaking with sobs, shaking with effort, as I fucked him. 

The hacks take me back to Gen Pop. I spend the rest of the day quiet. The brotherhood knows I was meeting Beecher today and when I get back to Cellblock 6, a couple of them look a little confused that I’m back, and not down in the hole trying to get Beecher’s blood off my hands. No one is stupid enough to ask. I walk past them and sit on my bunk. No one follows, although Robeson stands, hesitates for a minute before he turns to join the group at the table in the hall.

Robeson imagines that he’s in training, that he’ll run the brotherhood when my luck finally runs out. Sometimes I can feel him watching me, looking for weakness, watching for a sign that maybe I need a shank in my ribs for my own good. 

He’ll never run shit. He doesn’t have the imagination, or the patience and he’s too fucking stupid to know it. He’s muscle and not much more, smart enough to follow orders but not so smart that he a threat. He’s also just a little to quick to fall to his knees. If he wasn’t a brother, and blooded for the cause, he’d have been turned out faster than Beecher. 

I’m quiet at dinner. Beecher is sitting with his back to me, a couple of tables away, and it’s almost like old times as I stare at the skin on the back of his neck. I should have burned my mark there, up high where everyone could see it, where he’d feel it every time he turned his head, every time he looked over his shoulder to see who was coming up behind him. 

I get up just before he does, walk just fast enough to reach the window right after he does. I step up close, right up behind him so that he stumbles a little and jerks around to see who’s so close. He gives me a look, some kind of nervous grimace that isn’t even close to a smile and backs down fast. He drops his tray on the convener belt and yanks at his jacket and tries to pretend there isn’t a half-hitch that would like to be a full-out run in his walk. I watch him leave and mentally tick off all the spots between the cafeteria and Em city where a man could get lost: the supply closet that had been broken into so often that the lock never really caught, the stairwell and the shadowy overhang between the second and third floors, the space between the two gates where the cameras couldn’t reach. 

Never the luxury, the space and time of your own cell after lights out, where you could lie in the dim yellow light and listen to your private little bitch holding his breath, waiting on you. The absolute stillness from the bottom bunk as if he hoped you were tired, not in the mood, that you might forget just this once and fall asleep waiting for the hacks to finish their first patrol. The little catch of breath when you shifted your weight that turned into a ghostly sigh when you swung out of your bunk and landed on the floor. 

Lights out. 

Above me Robeson rolls over, mumbles something in his sleep. He talks in his sleep but I can only ever make out the names, never any of the words. He calls for his mamma, he calls for his ex-girlfriend, sometimes he calls for me. I wonder what he’s seeing behind his blue-veined eyelids when he says my name. Maybe me at the end of his shank, maybe himself on the end of my dick. Whatever. 

I close my eyes, breathe in measured breaths of stale pod air. I can smell the cabbage we had for dinner last night, the funky musk of the dirty clothes piled in the corner. Sometimes I make Robeson do the laundry, but not every time. I have to walk the fine line between bitch and brother. 

It’s all in the timing. A couple of months for the trial, a couple more for Keller to sweat it out on death row. They’ll execute Keller in the morning. 6 am execution like a chore you need to get done to get to the rest of your day. Nothing feels real that early in the morning.

I’ll corner him as soon as Keller’s dead. I can remember the way he looks when he’s spent the night crying. His eyes. His eyes are never brighter, never bluer, never more fuck-me-hurt-me-use-me pretty than when they’re rimmed in red. Two jagged little pebbles trapped in the mottled red and white bruise of his face. That flush that goes all the way down when he’s cried hard enough, for long enough. I should know. I spent enough time watching his skin bloom red and pink...his face...his hands...the back of his bowed neck. I feel the little nudge and slither of an erection raising its head.

I kick out one foot, catch Robeson right where his ass shapes the mattress into a round little dip. It’s almost cute.

“Robeson.”

He groans, swings his legs over the side and slides out of his bunk before he’s even fully awake. His eyes are still squinted shut when he falls to his knees. He knows the drill.

His hands are clumsy, thick-fingered, impatient. I don’t bother to help him, don’t shift or move as he works my sweats down off my hips. He shuffles a little on his knees, turning so he can keep one eye out for the hacks as he bends over and sucks my semi-soft erection into his mouth. He starts out hard, jerking back and forth like a ten-dollar whore looking to turn a two-minute trick. He stops and snaps his eyes up when I grab him by one ear.

“Slow.”

For a minute he looks like he’s going to argue. I feel the slick slide of teeth as his lips peel back into a snarl. I don’t move, don’t tense, don’t blink as he holds my cock between his teeth for one long frozen pause. I can feel his whole jaw go tight, the press of two sharp rows of teeth as he thinks about it. Then his eyes drop, and he pulls back, brings up one hand to hold my cock, the other slides up and rests against my leg, the tips of his fingers just brushing against my balls. He opens his mouth and my cock slides out. He tilts his head again, away from me, towards the hacks and he starts licking.

I close my eyes and think of Beecher and his little bitch mouth. The first time he sucked me off he was crouched down in a corner of our cell, eyes squinted shut, little pink tongue poking out like some prom date giving in to her big bad boyfriend. His eyes popped open when I slapped him and he flinched back, hard, into the wall when I hit him again. Later, when I’d pulled my hands out the tangled sweaty mess of his too-short hair my fingers were streaked with blood. When I held out my hands he hadn’t hesitated, just opened his bruised mouth and licked them clean in broad, firm swipes. 

I can taste the words in my mouth, feel them taking shape, gaining weight and heft. Words five years in the making. I rehearse the scene in my head. I want it perfect when I do it for real. 

Keller’s dead.

No shit.

And I know. I know it was you who killed Andy.

Would he even look surprised? Would he bother?

Robeson’s getting into it now, I can feel the change in angle that says he’s forgetting to watch for the hacks. He’s sucking right on the tip of my cock, tongue drilling into the slit in hard little licks. He’s holding my balls now in one sweaty palm, rolling them together like some sleight of hand magic trick that he can’t quite get right. His mouth drops down, sucks a hard line of kisses down my cock. His breath is coming a little too fast, getting a little too loud for a guy doing a chore. 

Why? Is that what you want to know? Why didn’t I take your daughter’s life in trade for my son’s? I’ll lean closer then, close enough to smell the soap on his high-class baby soft skin. No calluses on him, not even now.

“Because...” I unclench my teeth and the word rolls out on a sigh. Robeson stops for an instant, then starts again, slower, smoother, with plenty of tongue. Just how I like it. Just like I taught him. Taught them. His free hands skitters under the edge of my tee shirt, up my chest until it reaches my throat. He leaves it there for just a minute, just a little too long, then slides back down to my hip. 

In my mind Beecher sits frozen, his lips slack open as he struggles to understand.

Robeson chokes a little as my hips twitch up.

Because...because Holly’s my daughter now. My mark is on her, in her, all the way up inside her and I like the idea that someday when you and I are both dead that she’s still be walking around. Who will you be to her? No one, that’s who. Daddy in jail. Daddy who never came home. She’ll have kids of her own by the time you make parole. You’ll be less than nothing but the things that I’ve done will shape every single second of every single day for the rest of her life.

Robeson’s going faster now, slurping and rolling the head of my dick over his tongue like he likes it, like he’s squeezing it for all it’s got. No straight man gives head like that. Hot eager mouth splayed open just long enough to suck my cock a little deeper until it’s knocking on the back of his throat. He’s the one making the noise, quiet grunts as he works his tongue hard under the head. I can feel his hand shaking and I know he wants to drop them down to grab his dick. He never will. One thing to get hard sucking dick, another to get off on it. 

I grab his head, anchor my fingers in the smooth curve of bone behind his ears. I can feel him shiver. This is our secret. A brother might give you a little head as a gesture of respect, but only fags and prags swallow. I pull him closer and watched his eyes squint shut as he gags around my cock. I dig my nails in, just a little, to remind him of what he’s doing. His hands slide to edge of the bunk and grab hold as he tries to use his tongue and breathe through each hard thrust. If he was a prag I’d roll him over, bend his neck back over the bunk and fuck his throat like hired pussy. Like Beecher. Suddenly Robeson’s little gasps and grunts go quiet, like a radio turned down low. 

Well, To-bi-as. Keller, well hell, that dumb fuck loved you. Knew you for the twisted evil-hearted little bitch you are and he still loved you. And you killed him. Worse than killed. You let him kill himself for nothing. I know who killed Andy. I’ve always known.

I yank Robeson down, hold him down as my hips snap upwards, once, twice and his hands are frantic now, pulling at my wrists. I come, watching roses bloom under Beecher’s skin.


End file.
